


Complete

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Developing Relationship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Romance, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>For an anon prompt on the meme:</em><br/>Sherlock may be asexual, but that doesn't mean he can't be a loving, sensuous, romantic partner. You don't have to have sex to have sensuality.<br/>In my head, the events take place after Hounds, but before Fall. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Complete

"Let me just remind you again that I'm not a sexual creature, John. You understand that, don't you?"

John nodded, unsure of what to say--unsure what was on Sherlock's unfathomable mind now. They were each poised to push open the bathroom door. John in his t-shirt and boxers, Sherlock in his blue dressing gown. John was about to take a shower after a particularly exhausting day at the surgery, compounded by a two-hour dash around an abandoned school-turned-drug-lair collecting discarded syringes. Not for a case, of course--for yet another disgusting experiment.

"I'm just going to shower and go to bed, Sherlock. I don't . . . I don't understand why you're just standing there. Do you want to go first?"

"I want to do something for you, John. Right now. Can you trust me? Just trust me? If you don't like it, I won't do it again."

John stared at his flatmate and made a low, rumbling sound--neither assent nor refusal.

He felt Sherlock's hand on his back, pushing him into the bathroom. An unusual warmth was radiating from Sherlock, and John was more than a little irritated that he had no bloody idea what was happening. The detective's eyes were still clear, icy grey and he was smiling an odd, almost compassionate smile that John had rarely seen before.

"What are you up to? Are you playing some sort of game? I'm really not interested . . ."

"You must trust me, John. I've been observing you for a long time now. I think I finally understand. Let me test my hypothesis? I'd like to repay my debt to you, at least in some small way--and this is something I can do for you that perhaps no one else can."

Each word was dipped and swirled in a thick, mellow baritone. John felt them more than heard them. He was being wrapped up now in something soft and strong, but invisible. He wanted to resist, but . . .

"Sherlock, just tell me . . ." John's hands were shaking and his mouth was parched. He felt his face flush and he suspected that his pupils were growing dark with anticipation. It would be a lie to say he hadn't wondered whether they would ever find themselves naked, breathless, clutching at each other. Everyone else assumed it would happen or had already happened. And as the months went by and his attachment to Sherlock grew, John had decided he really wouldn't mind proving Angelo, the Yarders, even silly Mrs. Hudson right. He'd almost made a move himself when they'd shared that room on the Hounds case. But of course, in the end, he'd kept his distance, hadn't wanted to put their friendship in jeopardy.

Sherlock seemed to sense John's questions. "Again, John. I truly wish I could summon an erotic attraction to you, but I can't. That isn't a part of my makeup, as I've told you. But I do understand the need for sensual experiences. I understand the way the human body works, and I know that you've denied yourself certain feelings for a long time. I can see it in the way you move and speak, the way you leave the room when I play certain pieces on the violin. Look, let's stop talking for now and just let me try this experiment, all right?"

And so it was that simple. John gave himself over to Sherlock for the first time. Gave himself over to Sherlock's hands, his arms, his mouth. While the bathtub filled with hot water, shining with droplets of lavender-scented oil, Sherlock removed John's t-shirt and massaged his cool, pink skin using an ounce of the same oil he'd poured into the bath. Sherlock's long, slender fingers pressed and pulled at the worries that had set up camp in John's neck and shoulders, the anger and fear that had burrowed into his lower back.

John wondered that first time whether he should try to kiss Sherlock. The intense pleasure of those fingers digging into his hips, thumbs circling his nipples--God, he heard himself moan and gasp in thoroughly embarrassing ways. But Sherlock didn't seem to notice, didn't acknowledge the desire in John's eyes. That gentle, sweet breath that kept skimming over his skin as Sherlock worked--John couldn't believe it wasn't a prelude to something more.

But no, each time John made a clumsy move to pull Sherlock towards him or pressed his lips against Sherlock's chest--feeling the delicious friction of the silk dressing gown scrape across his chin--Each and every time Sherlock carefully pushed him away.

"No, John. Let go. There's nothing for you to do or say--I want nothing from you tonight."

Sherlock laid his hand over John's eyes to close them as he guided him into the bath. So warm, so fragrant. John kept his eyes closed, steam settling and condensing into droplets on his lids and eyelashes. He felt Sherlock begin to soap and massage his feet---a creamy froth oozed between his toes and Sherlock's hands rubbed away the memories of a hundred marches across rocky, barren mountains. Sherlock used a flannel to scrub John's calves and thighs--gently circling the scars--bending down to touch them with his lips and tongue, then scooping up warm water in his palms to wash more memories away.

The doctor tensed for a moment when the back of Sherlock's hand brushed over his penis--only half-hard, unsure. John smiled. Like his brain, his cock was still trying to process and categorize what was happening. Just waiting.

Sherlock added hot water to the bath twice and soaped and caressed every centimeter of John Watson's body. He shampooed John's hair with something that felt like honey and smelled like wild strawberries, pulling his fingers across John's scalp and tangling them in the short strands in a way that drew more embarrassing groans of shear sensual pleasure from the doctor's throat.

And just when John was sure he couldn't possibly feel more at peace, more complete connection between his soul and senses, Sherlock slipped silently from the room and returned with his violin. He played delicate tunes John had never heard before, but whose chords resonated deep in his chest as familiar and happy.

 

And so these rituals of pleasure and comfort evolved over the weeks that followed, so that sometimes the detective joined John in the bath or shower, allowing more of the warmth of his own radiant, pale skin to seep into John's. John soon found that he wanted to touch Sherlock, to massage the flat, tight plane of his abdomen and dance his fingers along Sherlock's collarbone like droplets of cool water.

Sherlock resisted at first. "No, John. This is for you, not me." But John was persuasive. Some would say stubborn.

And so they touched each other. Sometimes they kissed--when John was especially stubborn. They swayed together in the dim twilight, listening to the rain beat against the bathroom window. John often curled into Sherlock's sharp angles and long lines in the tub, hands reaching up to feel the full lips, the nose, the mass of thick, wet curls. And eventually John thought he understood.

His mind had always been divided--perfectly compartmentalized. "A brain built for the medical corps," his mates in the Army had said. He'd succeeded brilliantly at med school and in Afghanistan by keeping the grueling, ugly imperatives of his work--the blood, the death, the waste of it all--walled off. His parents, Harry, the friends back home never knew what he'd seen. They knew the same old John: sardonic humor, strength, a tender, empathetic heart beneath the woolly jumpers.

What he hadn't quite realized was that a part of him--a hidden compartment--had gradually emptied and grown cold and dark during all those years. In years of concentrating on the welfare of others--his mates, his family, the soldiers whose lives he held in his skilled hands every day--he had lost himself--a part of himself, at least--in serving everyone else. Lost the ability to see, to call by name, and to seek fulfillment of his own needs.

Then there was Sherlock. If anyone had needs, it was the genius detective. And of course, John willingly, joyfully met those needs. He was Sherlock's minder. His dogsbody. His trusty partner. Ready to supply the phone (even if it was already in the bastard's own pocket), the milk, the gun, the joke, the appreciative audience. John became his friend.

And as his friend, he discovered that Sherlock only played at being a sociopath--just like he played a dozen other roles to serve his work. But in reality, he was a man. A good man, despite Lestrade's suggestion otherwise. Lestrade had never gotten quite as close as John--close enough to see the good.

And to his surprise, the doctor discovered that Sherlock understood him too. Understood him as no one else did.

Because of Sherlock, now John had something he hadn't had in--well, he didn't know how many years. He had no conscious memory of being cared for like this, though he knew he must have been cradled and bathed and doted on as a child. These hours with Sherlock became a retreat into pure sensation, the kind that comes before thinking, before language.

He was a separate being, yes, but now with a deep, abiding understanding of being one with another person. He thought maybe Sherlock felt the same, though they never said it in quite so many words. What were the right words, John wondered?

Weightless.

Liquid.

Connected.

Complete.

This is what Sherlock gave him--a sense of being whole unto himself, but at the same time intertwined--with his friend.

Even when he thought he understood this new landscape--this new country they had built for themselves, John told himself it was beyond mere words and he refused to label it. Let people speculate and gossip and tease.

They were what they were. Just John and Sherlock.

But as he drifted to sleep, sometimes sharing his bed as well as his life with Sherlock Holmes, John knew there certainly was a word for it.

This was love.

 


End file.
